


Observable Attraction

by GobIin



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GobIin/pseuds/GobIin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One afternoon, Bruce finds himself thoroughly distracted by a certain archer.<br/>Sometimes, Clint makes Bruce feel as awkward as a teenager again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observable Attraction

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! So this is the first thing I've dared to post on here, so I hope you enjoy it! This pairing just needs more love.

Bruce Banner was an intelligent person.  In fact, most people would go so far as to say that he was a Very Intelligent Person.  A sort of needing-capital-letters, potentially-written-on-his-door sort of smart.    
  
Of course, the closest Bruce had ever gotten to that, was a bit of scrap paper with 'Dr. Bruce Banner' scribbled on it in blue pen, that Betty had taped to his lab door.  And that was years ago.  
  
Yes, Bruce was a very smart person.  He had survived on the run, and outwitted the government for years.  He had two advanced degrees, and he was sure he could manage another- absolutely sure, mind you- if only he didn't have so many things he was working on!  So that was an idea for another year.  
  
Smart, very smart.  And at that moment, Bruce was also feeling like his total useable brain-meat had been reduced to something in the realm of under-set grey gelatin.  The sort that still sloshes slightly when you try to take it out of the bowl, and shows all the fingerprints when you try (with futile hope) to see if it's done.  
  
He was currently sitting on the edge of the patio, a glossy tablet computer propped against his knee.  It was the sort of blissfully beautiful summer day that gilds everything dusty and hot, with a relentlessly blue sky and only the faintest wisps of white clouds.  And for Bruce, who had spent a large portion of his adult life globe-hopping from one sun drenched, third world country to another, it was _perfect_.  
  
Under the shade of a sweeping blue-and-purple striped umbrella, the screen of his tablet didn't show the fingerprints, leaving the current data set skipping cheerfully from left to right.  Processing, processing...  And leaving the noted physicist ample time to take in the view.  
  
And oh.  _Oh_ , what a view.  
  
Bruce leaned back against his chair, busying himself with fidgeting with his computer, trying to make it look as if he was actually working on something.  Instead of, you know, feeling as if his core body temperature had suddenly (well, not that suddenly, he supposed, it had been about an hour) been cranked up to 300.    Which wasn't healthy.  Or possible.  But in that particular moment, with the Other Guy relatively silent in the back of his mind, Bruce allowed himself the little scientific impossibility, exchanged for artistic license.  
  
On the other side of the pool (and really, he was sure that only Tony Stark would decide to put a swimming pool on top of his skyscraper.  It was a bit of ridiculous excess, the billionare's favourite kind of excess) Agent Barton was currently very absorbed in his laps.  Bruce had distractedly lost count of how many he had swum, too focused on the way the brilliant sunlight seemed to stubbornly pick out every inch of bared skin as it left the water.  
  
The way it sluiced over his toned, shifting muscles, and Oh Christ, those were good arms to have.  Bruce wasn't entirely sure, but he suspected that Clint was trying to kill him.  Because there was no other logical explanation for his being here.  At that moment.  With entirely too much of that tanned skin on display.  Absolutely nothing at all.  
  
Alright.  So maybe it had more to do with the summer heat.  And, considering the archer's greeting had consisted of a casual wave when he'd strolled onto the patio... Yeah.  Bruce was fairly sure Clint didn't actually realize he was alive.  
  
And that was a depressing enough thought to make him seriously consider retreating into his lab.  Forever.    
  
Because losing himself amongst the ten floors of ridiculously advanced R&D, a scientist in a maze of beakers and bunsen burners, with all the quirks and quarks of the world running through his mind, was excellently cathartic.  Always had been.  Even when his 'lab' was little more than a stick and a sandy bit of ground, or timeshared with a lot of chickens.  
  
Ever tried to solve Pi while a chicken watched you work?  He didn't recommend it.  
  
Bruce's fingers jumped faintly against the slick, moisture-beaded sides of his glass, the cold coming as a shock after the feverish heat roasting inside him.  He was always a little warmer than most people, but this was hot, even by Bruce's standards.  A few mostly melted ice cubes rattled against the sides of the glass as he brought it to his lips, the honey sweetened green tea feeling amazing in his parched mouth.  
  
In the pool, Clint grabbed the tiled edge, swinging himself energetically onto the deck.  Water trickled over his body, and Bruce could smell the chlorine tang as he walked over to his little table.    
  
Suddenly, there wasn't enough water in the world to fix the arid, dry feeling in Bruce's mouth.    
  
"Hey, do you mind?"  Clint asked, motioning to the last half-cup of cold tea in the pitcher.  Lazily, he raked a hand back through his soaked blonde hair, and Bruce was sure the humming sound in his ears had less to do with his tablet working through formula, and more to do with his brain promptly and inconveniently shorting out.  
  
"Sure?"  
  
That sounded disturbingly croaky, even to his own ears.  Setting down his tablet on his knee, Bruce slowly pushed his glasses back into place, the plastic nose-pads slipping on the faint sheen of sweat that clung to his skin.    
  
Bruce Banner, very intelligent person, he thought to himself, and about as suave as a landslide.  Rumble, rattle, _crunch_ \- how charming.    
  
There was just something about the secret agent-  
  
And oh Christ, oh God hated him, he was sure of it, as Clint lifted the pitcher to his lips (and really, Bruce knew there wasn't another glass, so he wasn't entirely sure what he had expected him to do) his throat shifting as he drank deeply.  A few errant drops of the iced tea clinging to the corner of his mouth, a single escaped bead of tea trickling down the column of his throat.    
  
With a choked gulp of air, Bruce tried not to think wonder on how sweat and hot skin would change the taste of the cold iced tea. After all, he'd always been a fan of the contrast of salty and sweet.  
  
Unconsciously, Bruce moistened his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out for an instant, desperate to relieve the dry, parched feeling, forgetting entirely that he had a perfectly nice glass of iced tea sitting three inches away from his left arm.  
  
Yes, there was just something about Clint.  With his cocky smirks that made Bruce feel lightheaded, and the moments of intense concentration that the scientist in Bruce wanted to pick apart, until he intimately understood the nuance behind every frown.  
  
He might, he mused, have a small obsession with Clint's mouth.  Which was secondary to his larger obsession with everything else regarding the enigmatic blonde.  
  
And it seemed that Tony hadn't figured it out yet.  Something he was endlessly grateful for- mainly because it was only a matter of time, and then Bruce was sure he would have to move to Nepal to escape the teasing.  And then Clint would find out, and ...  
  
Huffing a sigh, Bruce fidgeted with his tablet, mentally trying to calculate how long it would take to process the latest data set. Unfortunately, neutrino decay wasn't nearly as fascinating as the casually offhanded grin Clint cast him as he set down the pitcher.  
  
"Thanks."  He said, lifting a calloused hand in a sort of wave as he strolled towards the doors.  
  
As soon as the heavy door thumped closed, Bruce let his head fall back against his chair with a audible, rattling thud.  "Jarvis, when is the next flight to Nepal?"  He asked, raking his fingers through his sweat-damp curls.  His lips were curled up into a wry, self-depricating smile as he listened for the reply.  
  
"There is a flight leaving tomorrow evening at 6pm.  Would you like me to book it for you, sir?"  
  
Bruce paused, shaking his head before he remembered that the incredibly advanced AI couldn't, in fact, see him (or could it?  He made a mental note to ask Tony about that the next time he saw him).  
  
"No.. But thanks."  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
Bruce didn't often swear.  But sometimes, he thought with a sigh, the term "He was fucked" was perfectly apt.


End file.
